


Shoshū

by paranoid_fridge, rutobuka



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (including the spiders), Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dis - Freeform, Dwalin - Freeform, M/M, Suspense, and Bilbo a fake priest, and cameos by, and others - Freeform, and something More, fantasy medieval japan setting, where Thorin is a daimyō, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-27 08:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12577728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/pseuds/rutobuka
Summary: Kodokusan lies far from the capital, and many say its forests and mountains are haunted. Thorin doesn't think so, even if the raccoon he rescued in the forest on his way home appears rather clever. And maybe this rather useful and popular addition to his household would raise more questions, but there is another threat to Kodokusan.One that leaves webs in the forest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! 
> 
> Ruto and I had wanted to do a birthday thing; we did a Halloween thing instead. So watch out for some spooky stuff and canon-typical violence - but there is a happy ending.

The sun has already begun its downward journey when Thorin bids the samurai accompanying him farewell and directs his steed toward the western end of the mountain village. Few people are on the dusty street, but the cooling breeze carries laughter and the delicious smell of food. His stomach twinges in response - their journey was smooth, but long, and he is rather hungry now. 

Home isn’t far; just a little higher up the mountain where the summers never are as stifling as they are in the valleys or cities. The capital had been sizzling and Thorin positively melting in his formal robes. Fortunately in his home province he can do away with wearing multiple layers of painted silk. None of the other daimyo or nobles are very interested in the ongoings of _ Kodokusan_ thanks to its remoteness. 

Well, that and the fact it is considered haunted. 

Thorin steers his horse onto the winding path leading away from the village and into the lush forest covering the mountain. Small shrines line the roadside, some bearing fresh offerings to mountain gods and spirits. The greenery positively glows in the light of the evening sun, and he relaxes into the saddle. His horse has also recognized their destination as the grass on the roadside no longer distracts it. Birdsong fills the air; leaves rustle in the wind - 

And then there is a sound that shouldn’t be there at all. 

Thorin straightens in the saddle. The noise comes again - a high-pitched keening, almost like a pained cry. It breaks off abruptly, only to rise again, though Thorin cannot see what made it as tall bushes obscure his vision. The sound isn’t quite human, but it’s clearly one of pain. Around him the birds fall silent, and with a frown Thorin slides off his horse. 

He takes his katana, even though he has never encountered robbers or any evil-doers in this forest. The reputation of spirits haunting the forest is enough to keep most folk away, and his loyal retainers in the village do the rest. 

Thorin slowly heads toward the noise, easing himself past the thick bushes, careful not to let his hakama catch on the branches. The keening continues, though in the dense forest he cannot see where it originates. He keeps his katana at the ready, for while he has never encountered any ill in this forest the air has grown still.

Not much of the red light from the setting sun filters down to the forest floor. In the gloom he can barely make out the gnarled roots on the ground and deep-hanging branches brush his hair like ghostly fingers. Thorin startles when he pushes aside a particularly dense bush and finds a tiny clearing flooded with orange light ahead of him. An old shrine stands at its center, weather-worn and covered with moss. Something moves next to it and Thorin’s hands fly to unsheath his katana. 

The thing twitches again, and squeaks. Thorin’s eyes, now used to the light, recognize the form of a small raccoon, wrapped up in badly frayed shimenawa. The old purification rope has not held up well; mold has decayed the knots that kept it fastened to the shrine, though the remaining strands apparently are still strong enough to entrap curious animals. Thorin huffs, feeling a bit foolish to have drawn his blade on a trapped raccoon of all things. At least Dwalin isn’t there to laugh at him. 

With a sigh he sheathes his sword and approaches the raccoon warily. Thankfully, the animal stills; does not bare its teeth at Thorin or adapt an aggressive posture. They don’t get many raccoons in Kodokusan, but tales of raccoon bites and related encounters have reached them. This one, however, holds perfectly still, even when Thorin gets into arm’s reach. 

“What a mess,” he mutters to himself after studying the raccoon’s peril. There is no untangling those ropes swiftly, and from what he now sees either struggling against the ropes or one of the old charms affixed to the rope left a deep cut on the raccoon’s left leg. The fur there is matted with blood. 

Another pitiful squeak makes Thorin move. “Alright, alright,” he says. “I’m cutting you free.” He draws his katana a second time, wondering dimly just how badly the honorable and very reputable smith of his sword would scold him if he knew what tasks Thorin is using his precious blade for.    


The raccoon holds perfectly still while Thorin cuts away the old rope. It doesn’t even run away once Thorin is done, but rather pathetically sticks out its injured leg toward Thorin and whines. It sounds like a plea, but despite Thorin’s very limited experience with raccoons he thinks they don’t usually act like this. 

Then again this raccoon could have been human in a former life. 

It whimpers again. Huge black eyes gaze beseechingly at Thorin. And while he’s not a very devout, he is terribly weak against pleading looks. A fact that his nephews regularly abuse. 

And that a wild raccoon apparently figured out within minutes. 

He reaches home just when the sun hangs as a red ball over the mountains across the valley with a raccoon comfortably riding his shoulder. 

“Welcome home!” Dís exclaims, and stops short of embracing her brother when she spots the passenger on his shoulder. Kíli and Fíli follow her footsteps, their eyes lighting up when they spy the raccoon.

“Uncle Thorin! Did you bring back a pet? I’ve always wanted a pet!” Kíli exclaims, reaching up for the animal that has carefully pulled its tail out of reach. 

“I heard you brought souvenirs, but I didn’t know they were alive,” Dís mutters, eyebrows raised and arms crossed. She’s always been the most level-headed of all siblings, and effectively runs the province. Which is an open secret within the region, even if Thorin plays the figurehead for most formal occasions.

“It was stuck in some old shimenawa along the road. Couldn’t leave it there,” Thorin explains, following her into the inner courtyard where the lanterns have already been lit. “Is Óin still up? It injured its leg.”

The raccoon gives another pathetic peep at that. Dís’ eyebrows rise even higher, but when she notices the dried blood above its paw, she nudges Fíli. “Go and find Óin.”

He takes off dutifully. Dís meanwhile crosses her hands inside the long sleeves of her haori. “That is a very interesting raccoon you picked up there,” she says, and Thorin can only shrug. Truth to be told, after the long days of travel he is looking forward to soaking in their hot spring most of all. 

Kíli’s attention hasn’t strayed. “It’s a new friend,” he declares.

* * *

 

And a friend it becomes. Kíli and Fíli promise to take good care of it, and while a raccoon isn’t a very common pet, this one apparently likes to play with the two boys. Sometimes Thorin catches it playing tricks on the two of them (and, at least once, also on Dwalin). Then he has to wonder at himself. Because raccoons who trick people sound very much like the tanuki from the fairy tales Dís used to tell her sons. 

Though undoubtedly the little animal is both adorable and helpful; it finds the old hair needle Dís inherited from their grandmother and promptly lost back when she was fourteen. Next the mice plaguing their storage disappear overnight, and Dís jokes their raccoon must have been raised by cats. It does like to curl up near people,  so at one point Thorin discovers that raccoon fur is rather soft. Or maybe it’s just this one’s fur, because Kíli and Fíli keep brushing and washing it. 

Needless to say, he doesn’t mind when he sits on his favorite spot underneath the old oak tree with a view over the valley and the little fellow comes up to him. It gives an exhausted huff - playing with Fíli and Kíli takes energy, Thorin knows from experience - and curls up next to Thorin’s legs. On the other side of the valley the sun is setting, and a cool wind blows down from the mountains. Below, the colors have just begun to change, but up here autumn is swiftly arriving. 

Thorin reaches out to stroke the soft fur next to him, while his mind goes through his schedule. So far they have had a good harvest, barring any catastrophes they should be set for winter. Though perhaps he ought to ask Glóin and Bofur to fireproof their stores. Last year’s new year’s fireworks ended up setting fire to several grain stores across the country, to the point an imperial verdict had required grain transfers.

In the end it’s a very different danger that creeps up on Kodokusan. 

“Giant spiders?” Thorin echoes, keeping his voice low as to not alarm the anxious villagers hovering outside the small hamlet. Balin nods, as they move through the sparsely furnished entrance room of a local peasant. On the other side of the thin wall Óin treats the grievous injuries the man sustained: deep stabs into his torso and vicious slashes across his back. But what had truly turned Thorin’s stomach had been the white foam bubbling up from the wounds with a hiss as Óin began to clean them.

“I thought it was rumour, but this time we have several reliable witnesses,” Balin informs him in hushed tones. “And the descriptions of the beasts are all the same.” 

Thorin purses his lips. From the time he could walk villagers reported encounters with spirits and ghosts in the forest. Yet usually those occurred at twilight when Thorin knows the forest and the way it warps the light plays tricks on the human mind. And except for those times when the spirit was a surprised fox, badger or a rare wolf of bear, no one ever got injured. But these spiders seem different.

“Apparently they are larger than a grown man,” Balin continues, sliding the door to the side and squinting in the pale autumn sunlight. “They attack at night and keep to the edges of the forest. We might have some very ill-boding infestation.”

Thorin’s gaze slides over the waiting villagers. Fear is written across many faces as word of the spiders has already spread. Despite the sun an ominous chill lies in the air and the usually tranquil forests covering the mountains look dark and threatening.

“We need to go and investigate,” Thorin decrees. “In the meantime make sure nobody approaches the forest after sunset.” He will make sure Fíli and Kíli know that, too. They have mostly grown out of their “adventures-in-the-forest” phase, but he will not risk it. “Inform the others.”

Balin gives a short, sharp nod. 

This afternoon Thorin and the local samurai ride into the forest. The horses grow nervous as they pass the tree line, the men quiet. It is still within, quiet. Along this road the shrines have fallen into disrepair. But while Thorin hears fewer birds than usual and the forest appears darker, he cannot spot any overt threat. 

“Thorin,” Glóin calls out after ten minutes. When Thorin turns around he sees Nori pointing into the forest. A recently fallen tree allows a glimpse deep into the forest, and here thick, silver-green nets hang down from the trees like rotting curtains. 

“What's this?” Dwalin mutters, as he gets off his horse. Nori has already stepped into the forest, Thorin follows him with a frown. 

“Try not to touch anything,” Nori advises. Both Thorin and Dwalin have their hands on their blades, growing tender with every step that brings them closer to the webs. The air smells of decay and some foul whitish foam mottled the trees. When he looks up, Thorin finds the nets have completely obscured the foliage, like a poisonous fog that has left only brown, dead leaves.

“There,” Nori calls quietly. “Looks like they may have a special hatred for the shrines.” 

Thorin looks the way he’s pointing and finds the pitiful remains of a shrine covered in swathes of green-silver webbing. The stone looks as if burned in places, and Thorin thinks of the white foam rising from the man’s wound earlier.

Dwalin frowns. “If they don't like those, we should set up more of them. Where’s that old priest when you need him?” 

Nori finds the answer to that a little later, pointing out a half-eaten body spun up in cocoons. 

That evening, when Thorin looks out over the valley at nightfall it is as if a pall had been cast over the forest. Instead of calmed, the fine hair on the back of his neck is standing, and he can’t quite relax, not even when clever little paws pad across the engawa toward him. Thorin turns to watch the raccoon hop from the wood onto the mossy ground and cross toward him; the little fellow sniffs the air, and rather carefully - or at least careful enough to not have his claws catch on the fabric of Thorin’s hakama - sets its front paws on Thorin’s thigh. With a quirk of his lips Thorin lifts his hand and pats the white-brown head. The raccoon gives a pleased squeak, and then settles its not inconsiderable weight next to Thorin’s thigh. 

After a while, Dís joins them with a steaming cup of tea. 

“These spiders are monsters,” Thorin mutters, hand slowly stroking the soft fur. He feels shaken; what he saw today is unlike anything he has ever witnessed. But the raccoon wrinkles its nose, whiskers quivering, the way it always does when Thorin finds the right spot to scritch and some calm returns to Thorin. “And for all they must be gargantuan they possess some supernatural ability at hiding.”

Dís makes a noise of agreement. She's not seen the priest. But Óin called upon her when the peasant succumbed to his wounds. 

“We filled the webs all across the mountain, ventured deep into the forest. And yet we couldn’t find the spiders’ den. It’s like chasing ghosts.”

* * *

Autumn moves in swiftly. As the villagers avoid the forest on Thorin’s advise no new encounters take place. But the normality that returns is like a pale copy of the usual harvest season. A sense of fear lingers, and after nightfall the streets are empty. Windows are boarded up, doors locked, and villagers await sunrise anxiously.

At the same time, the raccoon disappears from the estate, much to Fíli and Kíli’s obvious and Thorin’s secret disappointment. But, as Dís points out, winter is approaching, and the raccoon possibly has a place to hibernate. It is, after all, a wild animal, no matter how clever and understanding it appeared. 

Meanwhile, a new priest arrives in the village, even before Thorin managed to write to the capital and ask for a replacement. 

_ tbc _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious priest arrives, and while Thorin likes him, the fellow does not appear to be a priest after all. He might however, help Thorin with the spiders...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have some canon-typical violence coming up!

The new priest’s foreign appearance draws some attention, though most villagers are simply glad to have a priest again. There is talk in the streets that the spiders are youkai, oni, or other supernatural creatures. Fresh offerings appear at the village shrine every day, and the scent of incense has spread through the village. Even Thorin, who is neither devout nor superstitious, frowns at the decay he sees in the shrines in the forest. Whereas the moss usually takes years to overtake them and is easily kept back by regular cleanings, where the webs show up the stone seems to corrode. 

But another excursion to find and kill the spiders turns up nothing again. 

Thorin also makes time to invite the new priest to his home. There, the small man - one Bilbo Baggins - greets Fíli and Kíli cheerfully, finds all the right words for Dís and seems right at home at the estate. He also banters with Thorin about a wide variety of matters while the hours grows later and later. For a priest, Thorin thinks, the man has a surprisingly sharp tongue, as well as an interesting, if different knowledge of the world.

Thorin finds he rather likes the man. Even if he is not very knowledgeable about Buddhism.

Balin approaches Thorin quietly after the priest has left rather late another evening. “I don’t mean to alarm you,” he says. “But that man doesn’t seem to be a priest at all. Even you know that the name is Lotus Sutra not Lily Sutra.” 

Thorin sighs, because yes, he had caught that one. “Maybe he is from abroad.” 

“They may have different schools abroad,” Balin replies gently. “But when I last traveled over the sea, they also named it Lotus Sutra.” The elderly man pats Thorin’s shoulder. “He appears harmless, even if he is an imposter. Once the spiders are sorted out, we ought to look into it.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Thorin replies and steps past him. 

* * *

The next morning a pale-faced boy runs up from the village just after sunrise. “There was an attack last night,” he gasps out, shaking. “One of the outlying farms … the spiders…” 

Thorin is on his feet before the boy has finished. “I’ll come at once,” he assures, and marches into the side building where they keep weapons and armor. 

When Thorin and his men reach the farm, the traces of a fight are unmistakable. Half of the house has collapsed, items strewn far across the field, and wide-eyed villagers watch the proceedings from a distance. Thorin isn’t surprised to find their new priest there as well. 

“Not to stop you, but I doubt that was a spirit’s work,” Dwalin shoots his way.

“Oh?” Bilbo tilts his head and turns around slowly. He is wearing richly-decorated robes today, and Thorin thinks they rather suit him. “The villagers seem to think so.”

Dwalin snorts and earns an elbow from his older brother. “I believe a purification of the place certainly won’t hurt,” Balin offers diplomatically. 

“Certainly,” Bilbo agrees with a smile that abruptly looks rather fake. Thorin sighs to himself. If, at least, their fake priest could pretend to do a purification ritual, it would calm the villagers. But apparently they ended up with the one person that has no idea of the gestures involved. 

“Do we have a trail on the spiders?” Thorin inquires instead, ignoring Bilbo investigating the scene in a highly un-priest-like manner. 

Nori inclines his head. “The trail leads back to the forest. After that we have no more leads.”

“Just more empty webs,” Dwalin grumbles. 

With a frown Thorin turns back to the scene before him, searching for any kind of clue. In truth he doubts Nori missed anything, but the house is devastated. The wooden eastern wall - the one that faces toward the forest beyond the fields - is almost completely gone, and the northern wall attached to it has large holes. It must have been a fast and violent assault, leaving the peasant brothers living here no chance to defend themselves. 

The floor is broken in places, dotted by eerie dark spots. Likely dried ink stains as the scattered calligraphy rolls suggest, but Thorin’s mind cannot help but suspect something more sinister. A trail of scattered paper and ripped fabric extends outside across the field and toward the forest. Despite their best attempts to secure the scene, the wind has started to carry some items further afield. 

Clouds have covered the sun when he makes his way around the house. As he makes his way toward the dusty road he spots Bilbo in conversation with a number of villagers. Fragments of the conversation drift toward Thorin on the wind, and soon he understands that the villagers are asking Bilbo to do something about the spiders.

“...if not wards, then the mountain needs to be purified. Evil has taken root in it, I tell you, this is the work of some evil thing,” an elderly lady insists and several people around her nod.

Bilbo smiles. “I have already completed the purification ritual at the temple” Thorin raises both eyebrows at that. “But I can certainly do it again.”

Some people nod, though the muttering remains unhappy. “What about the temple on the mountain?” a younger woman asks. “It’s in the middle of the forest, maybe it will be more effective if you do it there.”

“The forest is too dangerous,” somebody else interjects. 

“Temple on the mountain?” Bilbo asks. Thorin wants to groan. Everyone knows the temple on the mountain. “I’m afraid my superior did not inform me very well before my departure. It was all very rushed.”

The villagers appear mollified by the excuse. “Well, you leave the village and turn…”

“I can show you, Master Baggins,” Thorin calls over and strides toward the group. The villagers bow, and a murmur of respectful “Master Thorin”s rises. Bilbo inclines his head hastily as well, but it is noticeably late. 

“I would be grateful, Master Thorin,” Bilbo replies. 

* * *

Dwalin isn’t happy with Thorin’s plan. It is too late in the day and there are dark clouds moving in. Night will fall early today, and the path to the temple leads right through the forest. Getting their fake priest to the temple certainly isn’t worth the risk. 

“I don’t think we will travel all the way to the temple,” Thorin confesses, keeping his voice low so as to not be overheard. “I will take him until the upper fork in the path. From there he can make his own way.”

To the temple or wherever else he wants to go. Thorin doesn’t say it, but Dwalin understands him nonetheless. It is an opportunity for their fake priest to vanish; leaving Thorin with one problem less to deal with. 

“Make sure you return before nightfall,” Dwalin says. 

They part ways then, Dwalin heading back to Nori and Balin in order to calm the villagers and investigate the incident. Thorin, with a frown toward the sky, nods toward Bilbo who had been waiting a respectable distance away.

“Don't you need anything for the ritual?” Thorin asks as he unties his horse’s reins. The fake priest shakes his head, and Thorin suppresses a sigh. “Come on, then.” 

As Bilbo’s clothes aren't made for riding he ends up seated sideways before Thorin. At least he's small enough so they both fit the saddle, which fortunately had been made to carry Thorin’s larger grandfather some decades ago. The horse is rather nonplussed with it all and begins to obediently trot along the road leaving the village. 

People greet them respectfully. Bilbo waves back, rather cheerful and not exactly proper. The movement of the horse makes his body rub against Thorin’s in a way that makes him feel warm. This close he can smell Bilbo’s hair, and the wind pushes soft, stray locks against Thorin’s throat. 

“So where do you come from?” Thorin asks while the houses around them grow fewer and the dark tree line looms ahead. “Balin suspected you must come from quite distant lands.” 

Bilbo chuckles. “I suppose you could say that. It's been a bit of an unusual journey, certainly not one I expected to take.” 

“Oh?” Passing the tree line the light dims and the wind dies away. The leaves at the treetops continue to rustle. “I thought all monks and priests traveled?” 

As Thorin watches Bilbo’s profile he sees the other man’s lips twist. 

“Travel is not very popular with my group,” Bilbo returns evasively. 

“I don’t think I ever heard of a group like this,” Thorin says, returning his gaze to the winding path. It’s not the most popular route through the forest and across the mountain, though it is shorter. However, it also rises steeply uphill and is too narrow for carts to use. Nowadays only travelers on foot or those headed toward the temple follow it. 

The shrines dotting the side have nearly all fallen into disrepair, while the forest around them seems to have grown more sinister. In the gloom Thorin cannot see whether there are any spiderwebs near the road. 

“Would you mind telling me a little about your group?” Thorin asks, half calling Bilbo’s bluff, half wishing to end the silence. With the coming of autumn many songbirds have migrated south, though the forest feels stiller than usual. His fingers itch to grasp his sword, but he keeps his hands on the reins. 

Bilbo hums, his own eyes fixed on the forest, too. “I'm afraid we tend to keep to ourselves. And to be honest, we’re not very interesting people. A small community that thrives mostly on gossip.”

“I thought gossip was frowned upon in the monasteries,” Thorin comments. He watches his horse’s ears swivel around. The regular trot does not falter, but something caught the animal’s attention. 

“Well, I wasn’t living in a monastery. Imagine an isolated community living by its own rules,” Bilbo says without heat.

Then Thorin spots the fork in the road ahead of them, though the shrine marking it has nearly been overgrown. From here one path leads all the way uphill to the temple, while the other goes around the mountain to the next valley. There he halts his horse and explains as much to Bilbo who looks rather taken aback. 

“Master Thorin,” he says, head tilted back to actually catch Thorin’s eye. “You weren’t … well, I had hoped you could show me the temple.”

The horse shifts its weight nervously. Thorin takes a deep breath and transfers the reins to one hand so Bilbo is no longer caged by his arms. “Master Baggins, I believe we both know you are no priest or monk. If you follow the path on the right and hurry, you will reach the village on the other side before nightfall.” 

A surprising spark of determination crosses Bilbo’s face. “Master Thorin, with all due respect, I need to reach that temple.” He slides from the horse, and once on his feet looks at Thorin again. “And true, I am no holy man. But I - “

He breaks off, his eyes shifting to the forest on his left. Thorin’s horse whinnies, suddenly jumpy. Thorin belatedly realizes that the forest around them has fallen utterly still. 

“Run!” Bilbo shouts the moment Thorin’s horse shies. The reins slip from his hands as they fly for his katana, and the next moment the saddle slides out from underneath him. He lands clumsily on the ground, knees aching at the impact, and his horse is already racing back down the path. 

Something is stirring in the forest now, something big. Thorin hears branches break and leaves rustle, and he draws his blade. It’s not the situation in which he wished to face the spiders, but it will have to do. 

“Get behind me,” he says to a pale-faced Bilbo. The other man unfreezes, whirling around. “How far to the temple?” 

“Maybe twenty minutes? But we should head back -” 

“No, the temple will -” A gargantuan spider bursts from the forest behind Bilbo. Thorin has never seen the like - unholy red eyes stare at them, set against bulbous grey-green skin, and incisors the size of Thorin’s leg but as sharp as his blade aimed at Bilbo.   


It rears itself up, and Thorin throws himself forward, pulls Bilbo back and pushes his sword forward. His blade pierces the spider’s s with a crunch and slides in deep. Thorin jerks it out with a wet squelch, and the spider gives shrill scream before its legs crumble and it collapses. But more of them move in the forest, and Thorin’s blood runs cold. 

“We need to head back to the village!” he shouts toward Bilbo who is moving into the other direction. Cold sweat makes his hair stick to his face. “We won’t stand a chance here!” 

“We need to get to the temple!” Bilbo cries over his shoulder. As he looks back his eyes widen. “Thorin, behind you!” 

At the last moment Thorin senses the shift of air behind him and throws himself to the side. A hairy, spindly leg pierces the earth where he just stood, and the spider attached to is hisses furiously. Thorin stumbles to his feet, dodging the stabs, and swings his sword, cutting through two legs. 

The spider sways, and Thorin retreats, finding himself joining Bilbo. Something else moves in the forest between them and the village: there are at least two spiders there, likely more. Even the wounded spider does not retreat, but stalk toward them, hissing and spitting ill-omened white-colored saliva. 

For some reason Bilbo has stopped moving. Thorin can’t turn now, so he throws himself forward, dodges one leg and aims his blade for the monster’s throat. Fangs click right next to his ear, and he feels something slide past his head. But his cut is clean and deep, and black blood gushes out as the spider crumbles into a twitching heap. 

When a third spider bursts from the thicket next to him, he has no chance to react. The incisor bites into his shoulder, Thorin’s hands struggling in vain to lift his sword, but with a strange, cold calm he realises he won't be fast enough, realises he won’t be able to avoid the attack. And then something tackles the spider from the side. Both go tumbling, and Thorin belatedly recognizes Bilbo who somehow now wields a small, glowing sword. 

Bilbo viciously drives the blade into the spider’s belly, not minding the black blood splattering his clothes on skin. When he rises, his eyes glow. 

“Enough,” he hisses in a voice that is not Bilbo’s; a voice that has no place belonging to any human being. 

Thorin’s knees give out. Cold sweat makes his clothes stick to his back and his hands shake, but he thinks he hasn’t fought that much. Then his shoulder throbs and Thorin slowly looks down to see the cloth of his haori stained bright red. The world wavers. 

Somehow Bilbo stands near the crumbling shrine now. Grass tickles Thorin’s cheek. He feels queasy, dizzy. There is another spider, now, but it’s already dead. Strange, because Thorin never saw what killed it. His vision flickers. 

More spiders. But somehow they can’t even seem to get close. The strange voice continues speaking, but in a foreign tongue. Thorin can’t make out words, can’t make out much of anything. Before his eyes things twist, taking on outlandish shapes. Ghosts dance among the trees, willowy and scintillating. There is a new rhythm to the rustling of the leaves. A heartbeat in the ground. 

The world slips away.

* * *

Something tugging on his hair wakes Thorin up. He makes a low, grumbling sound in his throat and swats blindly toward the source of the tugging, thinking it must be Fíli or Kíli up to their usual tricks again. Something squeals and squirrels away, and Thorin notices that he lies on grass and roots, and a cool breeze is caressing his face. 

This is not his home, he realizes, and just when he opens his eyes the memories return. He sits up abruptly, reaching blindly for his sword. But the forest around him is quiet and dark. Night has fallen, the moon risen; an owl hoots in the canopy and small animals chitter. The oppressive stillness accompanying the spiders has gone. And so have they. 

Even the corpses have vanished.

Thorin rubs at his aching shoulder with a grimace. He did not imagine that fight; the bloodstains on his haori have not disappeared either. Though Thorin is glad the pain has lessened, and the sense of sluggishness is slowly fading from his body. 

It could have ended very differently, he thinks as he climbs to his feet and surveys the damage. Despite the spiders’ corpses no longer being there, trampled bushes and cut branches verify the fight. With a sigh he slides the blade back into its sheath and looks around again.

Bilbo is gone, too, and the tiny shrine Thorin last saw him next to has completely fallen apart. Impulsively, Thorin steps closer to get a better view, and notices a dark shape stirring among the broken stone. 

It's a raccoon. As Thorin approaches it gives a weak whine - one that is utterly familiar. Thorin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bilbo?!” 

The raccoon blinks at him, while Thorin wonders at his own mind. First, mysteriously disappearing spiders, then thinking a priest turned into a raccoon. Thorin shakes his head at himself and reaches out for it. Shapeshifting priest or not, the animal is injured. Blood mats its fur on its chest and shoulder.

However, the raccoon shies away from Thorin's hands. It weakly shuffles backward and seems to signal Thorin to keep his distance. He has little time to wonder, because the next moment the air around the raccoon flickers and the fake priest sits in its place. 

  


Bilbo’s face is tinged grey and he pants heavily. Blood stains his clothes, he clutches his left arm to his chest, but manages to direct a dry grin at Thorin. “The spiders should be all gone now.”

“I suppose I was right then,” Thorin says and holds out a hand. “You truly are no priest.”

Bilbo lets Thorin pull him to his feet and chuckles. “No, I'm afraid I have no idea what priests usually do. I wasn't lying about coming from a rather distant place.” 

He can't quite stand steadily, so Thorin wraps an arm around Bilbo’s waist, and together they begin their slow track back toward the village. “I suppose it's not exactly a place within the country?”

“Hm, not exactly. In a way it is within, but well…” Bilbo trails off. 

“Some sort of magical space?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“And did the spiders come from a similar space?” Thorin keeps his eyes fixed on the ground to not trip over exposed roots. Perhaps it is due to the moon, but the forest seems less dark, and he has no trouble following the path. 

Bilbo hums. “No. The spiders were … magical, but they have no specific place. Rather, they spread and bring evil wherever they go.”

“And you meant to go to the temple in order to defeat them? Could a priest have done the same?” Thorin slows his steps as he notices Bilbo breathing harder. His own shoulder aches, and the village feels uncomfortably far away. “Do you need a break?”

“It's fine.” Bilbo shakes his head. “And yes. The fact that the old protections on this forest were weakening was what allowed the spiders in.” 

Thorin frowns. “The village priest was taking care of the temple and shrines in the forest, though.” 

“I don't think he was very powerful spiritually,” Bilbo replies. “What the priests do... it ends up keeping evil spirits away through their spirituality rather than the rituals they perform or sutras they recite. It's difficult to explain.”

He stumbles and Thorin tightens his hold. They sway, but do not fall. The trees and bushes are less dense now; the village is not far. 

“I understand nothing about spiritual powers, karma, or anything,” Thorin says when they resume their slow march. “But what you say worries me. Will the spiders return?” 

“They shouldn't,” Bilbo gasps. Thorin looks over to see a fine sheen of sweat covering his face. The bloodstain on his clothes has spread, too. “Not anytime soon. They -”

“Thorin! Thorin!” some faraway voice shouts. “Thorin, where are you?”

They halt, fall silent. Now Thorin picks up hooves clacking, and the rider is moving toward them.

“Thorin!”

“Here! We are here!” he yells back. Bilbo twitches, almost as if he wants to break away and leave, but Thorin holds onto him tightly. He had questions, and Bilbo has wounds that need treatment, and just saved his life. 

“Here!”

Soon a familiar rider emerges from the shadow. Thorin hasn't been so glad to see Dwalin in a long time, even if the other’s eyes widen when he catches sight of them. 

“Thorin! What on earth did you do?” His eyes stray to Bilbo, and Thorin recognises the unspoken questions in his eyes, but instead he maneuvers Bilbo and himself forward.

“Did you run into the spiders?” Dwalin asks as he jumps off his horse. “Did you get hurt? I told you it was too late to go!” 

“Just a cut,” Thorin replies, exhaustion beginning to seep into his limbs. “And the spiders are dealt with. Master Baggins here handled them.” 

Dwalin’s eyes widen at that. 

“He was injured rather badly, though. It would be best to take him to Óin, quickly,” Thorin adds. 

The scepticism hasn't fully disappeared from Dwalin’s face, but he leads his horse forward and agrees. Together they lift Bilbo onto the horse; they try to be gentle, but from Bilbo’s face, he is now in no small amount of pain. 

Especially since he makes no further attempt to disappear. From the way Bilbo has stiffened at his words Thorin senses the shapeshifter would have rather vanished into the night. 

“You get on, too,” Dwalin announces and abruptly pulls Thorin out of his thoughts. He stares at Dwalin in surprise.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You are not going to walk all the way back home with your shoulder like that. Dís would strangle me.”

* * *

They return to Thorin’s estate to find all lanterns lit and the place in uproar. Dís deflates in relief when she spots Thorin, and Balin keeps shaking his head in exasperation. Due to his shoulder wound and Bilbo’s waning consciousness, he can extract himself from the madness after relaying just the barest of facts: that the spiders have been defeated. And from the incredulous stare his sister gives him and the disbelief on Balin’s face he supposes they have a lot of questions. But Óin declares that questions will have to wait, and then whisks both Thorin and Bilbo away for treatment. 

Due to said treatment - one rather sweet-smelling tonic in particular - Thorin wakes late and needs one long, awful moment to reorient himself. The futon is familiar, but there is a deep ache in his shoulder and he can't quite recall setting down to sleep. But the birds outside chirp peacefully and he can hear faint voices chatter in the courtyard. 

He sits up with a groan and rubs a hand over his eyes. After a good night of sleep whatever occurred on the mountain appears quite fantastical and he isn’t sure if he can trust his own recollection. Cast against the palpable reality of the tatami, the giant spiders feel like fantastical illusions.

Thorin stands and draws a padded haori over his shoulders. He steps into the inner courtyard just as Dwalin enters from the main gate. Clad in armor, he bows toward Dís, and Thorin overhears him say “...the webs are gone.” 

“It appears that the spiders are gone, then,” Dís replies thoughtfully. “Though I would prefer to wait a few days to see if they stay away, too.” She looks to the side and Thorin notices a third person seated on the engawa of the watchmen’s house. Clad in a simple, borrowed yukata and shaded by the overhanging roof, Bilbo doesn’t answer. 

“If you could stay while we ascertain that the spiders have really vanished and will not return, we would be most pleased,” Dís says politely, but Thorin has heard the tone often enough to know it’s an order. But what makes his blood run cold isn’t Dís’ demand, but the notion that Bilbo tried to leave. 

Without even saying goodbye. 

Thorin scolds himself for that thought. They have barely known each other, and Thorin still can’t quite fathom what the man is - raccoon, tanuki, wizard? Still, his feet start moving on their own and the three notice him immediately. 

“Thorin, you’re up!” Dís calls out.

“Glad to see you back on your feet!” Dwalin grins and nods. 

Bilbo stands up, too, and offers a polite bow. Up close Thorin can see that he still looks pale and drawn. The bandage wrapped around his head contrasts sharply with the copper of his curls.

“Good morning,” Thorin greets them in return, tugging his haori tighter around his shoulders because the morning is cool. Autumn will soon make way for winter up here in the mountains. “So I heard the webs are gone?” 

“We only checked those near the treeline,” Dwalin replies. “Still will have to check the rest of the mountain.” 

“That would be for the best,” Thorin agrees. He’d rather not prematurely tell the villagers that the threat is gone. Even if he is certain it is. The air feels different, today. 

“And Mast- Bilbo,” Thorin makes a point of switching to the familiar address and ignores how both Dwalin and Dís stare. “You intend to travel today? While it appears to be an admittedly good day for travel, I would feel very remiss as a host to see you leave so soon.” That, and magical creature or not, Bilbo does not look fit to travel. The yukata is somewhat short on him as well, making Thorin wonder just where Óin found it.

“Walk with me,” he says, before Bilbo can offer any excuse or argument. 

Even if Bilbo isn’t entirely human, he still appears to be bound by the rules of politeness and friendship. He deflates, and nods. “Very well, Master Thorin.”

“Just Thorin,” Thorin corrects, and perhaps some remnants of Óin’s tonic are making him feel rather cheerful about the confusion Dís and Dwalin radiate. To complete the deed, Thorin offers his arm, and Bilbo - nearly as confused as the other two - accepts it. 

Oh, there will be questions later.  Like Dís wondering if the priest really spotted a fluffy tail that magically poked right through the borrowed yukata . But for now Thorin leads Bilbo away from the two and to the western side of the estate. 

Thorin sits on his favorite spot - the engawa outside his private rooms, overlooking the valley. Bilbo hesitates, but eventually sits as well. 

“You’ve been here before,” Thorin says lightly, watching Bilbo gaze out. The other doesn’t react to his statement except for a tiny smile. 

“I had not quite realized that the view was this wonderful,” Bilbo replies without looking away from the autumn landscape below. 

“Is your eyesight in your other form not as good?” Thorin asks, thinking of the raccoon that used to snuggle up against his thigh. 

Bilbo laughs. It’s a bright sound that makes Thorin smile in return, and with a twitch of the nose that reminds Thorin rather acutely of said other form, he says: “Raccoons have terrible eyesight.”

“Even magical ones?” 

“Especially magical ones,” Bilbo confirms. Below the red and golden leaves rustle in the wind, and Bilbo sighs. “It’s actually one of the reasons I prefer this form.” 

“Oh?” Thorin leans back to sit more comfortably. He wishes they had tea, but that will have to wait. 

Bilbo tears his eyes away from the landscape to catch Thorin’s eye. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he declares without heat. “Isn’t it some terrible human nightmare to meet somebody and find out they weren’t human after all?”

“Only if they turn out to be giant spiders, or something like that,” Thorin deadpans.

Bilbo snorts. 

“If they turn out to be kind-hearted and helpful, I don’t really mind,” Thorin adds, relaxing further against the wooden wall behind him. Bilbo looks back the valley.

“That’s kind of you,” he returns, and a comfortable silence settles over them. They watch little dots - men and women - work in the fields, walk along the village. Steam rises over the village rooftops, and the world looks very peaceful. 

“I will not keep you if you must leave,” Thorin says after a while. “But if you like it here, I would like you to stay.”

“You are too kind,” Bilbo says, and there is a note of bitterness to his words. He presses his lips together as if to stop himself from saying more.

“Why must you leave?” Thorin asks quietly. 

Bilbo glances away. “We are … my kind… we are not supposed to linger around humans. Or reveal ourselves.” His lips twist into a frown.

“Will bad things happen if you do?” 

“No one ever said so, to be honest,” Bilbo replies with a small shrug. “I hope not.”

“Considering your presence here means the spiders are gone, I'm inclined to believe the opposite.” Thorin inches a bit closer. “I found a lot of things people say may not be unfounded, but they’re not correct, either.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” Bilbo says.

“Then stay?” Thorin asks and reaches out to gently grasp Bilbo’s sleeve. “Unless there is somebody waiting for you back home.” 

Bilbo looks down on Thorin’s hand and doesn't pull away. “Not really. To be quite honest, my home… they are nice people, but small-minded, I suppose. They don't like the outside world, don't like humans.” 

Someone like Bilbo, Thorin thinks, would not fit among a group like that. “Then stay,” he says again. 

“You chased the spiders away. I would feel a lot more comfortable with you around,” Thorin adds. “I also believe we have a vacancy at the local temple currently.” 

Bilbo raises his eyebrows. “I thought I made a very bad priest?” 

“A Buddhist one,” Thorin replies with a smirk. “I believe the position I was thinking about was more about repelling spiders than reciting sutras.” 

A faint smile crosses Bilbo's face. “I suppose I can do that.”

_ The End _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! We hope you enjoyed the art and the story, and you can always come and yell at either of us here or on tumblr ([rutobuka](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/)). 
> 
> Last but not least: Kodokusan 孤独山 is a very loose variation on the official translation of Erebor into Japanese (which is 孤独な山, aka Lonely Mountain).


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